Chapter 34
When my flight lands in Montevideo early Monday morning, with the plane bouncing along the runway, my heart bounces, too. I’m really here.
On each leg of my journey, but especially on the nine-and-a-half-hour flight from New York to Brazil, I rehearsed the words I would use when confessing to Bas, though more than once I toyed with the idea of not telling him.
If I stay silent, I get to keep my relationship and make a fresh start of it.
And though Bas will surely sense something’s off, I could try to make him think it’s related to my ordeal in Cartersville—and, in time, my guilt might even subside.
But then I’d be no better than Logan: cheater, liar, cad.
I insisted during my last call to Bas that there was no need for either him or Jorge making the nearly hour-and-a-half drive to pick me up, and that I would instead book Umberto, a guy we sometimes use for airport runs. He begrudgingly agreed and said he would have lunch waiting for me.
And that means I won’t have to spend a whole car ride faking that everything’s okay.
There’s always a ton of people meeting passengers at the Montevideo airport, as if airplane travel is still a novelty.
When I emerge from customs, I spot Umberto along the edge of the large, jubilant crowd, and he waves at me with a friendly smile.
As we head to the parking lot, in the crisp but pleasant air, he asks me in Spanish about my trip, having no idea what the agenda was.
I tell him that it was good but I’m glad to be home. Not knowing, of course, if it will still be my home by the end of the day.
We head east on Ruta Interbalnearia, the coastal highway that connects Montevideo to Punta del Este. Though tourist season is well over, there are still billboards heralding the joys of summer and others touting area vineyards and availability in new bright-white condominiums.
I close my eyes, trying to shut out the world for a bit. Despite my resolve to tell Bas the truth, I find myself resisting again. But even if I convinced him everything was okay, the deceit would be a dangerous fissure in the foundation of our relationship.
Eventually I feel Umberto veer left, and I open my eyes.
We’re leaving the main road in order to travel northeast. This stretch is far more rural, and the rolling fields on each side are filled with cattle or sheep, and the occasional concrete farmhouse, its tin roof glinting in the sun.
Now and then, we catch up with a beret-wearing gaucho riding his horse along the side of the road.
Finally, we make the turn to the chacra.
Sebastian must hear the car coming up the long driveway, because by the time we reach the house, he’s standing under the portico.
My heart swells at the sight of him with a weird mix of joy and anguish.
He’s in jeans and a beige flannel shirt, his hair slightly tousled by the breeze. Poco is right beside him, ears raised.
As soon as I’m out of the car, we embrace, and Bas kisses me softly on the mouth.
“Bienvenido a casa,” he says tenderly.
“Thank you. It’s so good to be here, sweetheart.”
But inside, I’m roiling.
A flurry of activity follows—me paying Umberto and petting the leaping, tail-wagging Poco; Bas hauling my bag from the trunk—and it isn’t until I’ve washed up and changed that we’re finally side by side again, standing alone in the kitchen.
“Where’s Maitena?” I ask. Though I see lunch on the counter, there’s no sign of her.
“I asked her to make something earlier and then just leave it for us to serve ourselves. I figured it would be nice to be alone together when you got back.”
“Yes, of course.” I now have no excuse for putting off the conversation we need to have.
With Poco trailing behind us, we carry out platters and bowls to the galería and set them on the table.
There’s roast chicken, already carved, chimichurri sauce, potato salad, and sliced tomatoes, perhaps the last good ones until next summer.
Bas grabs a bottle of rosado and another of aqua con gas.
We take our usual seats at the table, him at the head and me catty-corner. This way we both can enjoy the view.
“You feel like a copa de vino?” he asks, smiling. “It’s practically required after a flight on GOL airlines.”
“Ha, yes, but just a little, okay? I don’t want to pass out at the table.”
I take a minute before eating to stare out at the landscape. A few small clouds scuttle across the sky, casting shadows here and there on the fields. For the first time, I notice that the milky plumes of the pampas grass have turned almost completely brown.
“You ordered a perfect day for my return,” I say, sounding more wistful than I intended.
“I tried,” he says. “But you know how fickle the gods can be.”
“Oh yes, they certainly can be.” I feel a terrible pang in my chest as I say it. Before the day is done, I’m going to know what the gods have in store for me.
Bas has already taken a few bites of his meal but pauses now, setting his utensils down.
“Any news since we spoke yesterday?”
“No. The case seems to be moving, but we might not hear anything new for at least a day or two.”
He smiles lovingly at me. “I’m in awe of what you did, Bree—turning over every stone until it led to this woman.”
“Yes, but . . . in the end, this girl Riley died.”
“You feel responsible?”
There, he sees it right away.
“Yes. Partly, at least.”
He rubs his hand slowly down the side of his face, looking up to the left briefly.
“When I was getting divorced years ago, I read a few things about guilt—because I had my share of it—and I remember a British psychologist saying that guilt occurs when our own moral standards don’t match up to what we’ve done.
I understand how you’re feeling, but you had no idea that encouraging Riley to tell the truth would cause her any harm.
If you had thought that, you would have proceeded differently. ”
“Yes, I see your point. But that doesn’t change the outcome.”
“Hmm . . . He said something else that might be of help. Instead of feeling stuck with our guilt, we should use it as an energizing emotion. To get us to apologize or atone—or, um, the third one I think he mentioned was to make amends.”
“Ah, that’s good food for thought,” I say. Bas gets me; he has from the start. “Maybe there’s something I can do for Riley’s fiancé or family.”
“Yes, that’s an idea for sure.”
I take a long sip of rosé. It’s dead quiet out, no birdsong at all, but the air between us seems to vibrate as if someone is running a wet finger around the edge of a wineglass. I can’t wait any longer.
“Bas, there’s something else I need to get off my chest. Something not good. I—”
“Before we go any further,” he says, interrupting me, “let me ask you a question, Bree.” He glances briefly out to the fields and the enormous Uruguayan sky. “Is this working for you? Us, this place, everything?”
The questions take me aback, even make me gulp. Does he already know?
“Yes, Bas, it is working. Why are you asking that?”
“When you were gone, especially when we talked on the phone, I was struck by the distance between us. And not just in miles. We’ve spoken so little about some of the most important things in your life—Melanie, her death, the end of your marriage.
I blame myself for not asking more, for not helping us create a dialect for those kinds of discussions, but it doesn’t feel—at least to me—that you gave me much of an entry.
I never even went online and read about the case because I felt I’d be violating your privacy. ”
I sigh, my breath stuttering a little. “You’re right, Bas, I haven’t. But”—and to my surprise, I choke on the words—“I want to change that. I made the mistake of thinking it was better for our relationship—and just plain better for me, too, I guess—if I barricaded all the past behind me.”
“And it’s not because you’ve only been biding your time here?”
Is that what he really thinks? Has he made a decision about us before I even got back? I can almost hear my heart pounding in my chest.
“No, Bas, I’m not biding my time, not at all. I love you and our life here, and I want it to go on and on . . . But it can’t go on without me being honest with you.”
He lifts his hand slightly from the table, in a gesture for me to stop. Please, I pray, don’t let this all fall away.
“It’s not necessary, Bree,” he says finally. “I know things were very hard for you in Cartersville, and that perhaps there was also unfinished business.”
I hold my breath. So, he’s had his suspicions.
“Yes,” I say, barely above a whisper. “But not business I want a part of anymore.”
He nods and glances out at the landscape again, seeming to study it, but I know he’s thinking, deciding. He’s got every right to be disgusted by my behavior, unfinished business or not, and to send me on my way.
He turns back to look at me. “I’m willing to put it behind us, Bree, if you are, too. And if this is the life you really want now.”
“It is,” I say, flooded with relief. “For certain.”
And not just because of the serenity it’s brought. I did flee, as Logan claimed, to the damn Southern Cone, because when I’m here, it often feels as if grief has overslept and missed the flight. But it’s also because of Bas and the man that he is.
I set my glass down and reach across the table. I grasp Bas’s hand and bring it toward me, pressing my lips against his fingers.
After lunch, I flop onto the bed, falling into the deepest sleep I’ve had in days. When I finally wake, I can tell it’s still daytime, but for a few seconds, I have no clue where I am, and my heart thrums with anxiety.
And then, as I become aware of the soft cotton spread beneath me, I realize: Uruguay. I’m still here. In a bed I share with Bas. This is my home for certain, so far away from my old life but where I get to feel of the world again. My eyes well with tears, wetting the pillowcase.